tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57548862010480687062017-12-13T06:31:45.818-08:00Thought-DriveThe week to week thoughts and deliberations of a writer that authors, a thinker that dreams, and a realist who hopes.J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.comBlogger231125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-24229057888657150042017-12-13T06:31:00.004-08:002017-12-13T06:31:45.830-08:00Overstand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Tis the season. For falling into funks. The writing has been proceeding, albeit at a slow pace. I've been hamstrung by the start and stop pace created by the research required to keep this off the ground. Normally, my chapters hover around 2,500 words. That's been strangely consistent across series, across genres, across years. I theorized early on that a specific amount of detail is required, like the rubber casing surrounding copper wires, to transmit understanding and create immersion for the reader. And it depends a lot on where the author is starting, what needs to be explained for the story elements to make sense, so the narrative can proceed. In more modern settings, I found the chapter word count dropping, because everything was so very similar to our modern world. In fantasy settings, not medieval but different worlds entirely, certain things had to be clarified, but where I didn't explain, the trappings created a safety netting in the medieval understanding. Somewhere, someone was churning butter. There were cows. Sky was still blue on good days and the grass was still green. In science fiction, sometimes the water is red and the leaves are purple, the ground is poisonous green sand and clouds are alive. For the current project, which is set in modernity, I'm up to 4,000 words. I wouldn't call it a slog, but it's as if the opposite has become true. The world is the world we all remember, but the changes are important, and there is a non-trivial amount of them.<br /><br />On that note, story detail, a writer friend asked me for my opinion on a she's been working on, and how it looks in today's political climate. She made specific decisions with skin tone and melanin content in her fantasy story and worried that it would be misinterpreted in certain, damaging ways. I told her that so long as the decisions were deliberate, and not chosen in spite or anger, then it should be fine. Just be ready for questions. We have different backgrounds, so I was able to provide some alternative perspective on how I saw things, and why. I told her that stories are blank canvasses, for me, and every single dab of paint is a choice the author makes. Lots of decisions get made arbitrarily in lots of stories, and even though I do that myself, I still think it is a weaker move. Because every decision made is an opportunity for distinction. I told her I was curious how she even came up with the idea to use darker peoples in certain ways, and she explained that, for her, it was a point of representation. I respected that, even agreed with it, but there were some other concerns I vocalized. All in all, it was an interesting discussion, and made me reflect on my own choices, past and present, and why I made them, and what I would do differently if I had them to do all over again. This writing process for the current project has been even more introspect than others, which, if you know me, is saying a lot. I have had to confront my own ignorance of certain topics directly, and accept the fact that I was a bit lost, in trying to find my way. I never did go camping, yet I find myself in even deeper woods.<br /><br />And almost as if I needed an example, I happened upon a video of the creator of a show I watch, talking about how he came to create one of the characters. The character in question is very distinctive, with several traits that connected in such a way that the origin seemed assured. The video even went on to explain why it was perfectly reasonable to assume the character came from that certain place, was built on top of specific stereotypes. The video went on to explain how all of that was false, with testimony from the author, who walked through who the character was, and where the idea had come from. I never could have imagined. It transported me back to my reaction to my writer friend's question, about being ready for questions. Without that explanation, I, and apparently many others, would've made some wholly incorrect assumptions (and this is important because the character, at times, borders on being generalizing, if not racist). It taught me that there are so many different computations of understanding. It was amazing, but also terrifying, and I wondered about what things I had created that were innocently, and dangerously, misunderstood. And again, I turned to my current project, where I am not shying away from certain things, but rather addressing them very directly.<br /><br />Today, I am not especially sure where I'm going, but I think I know where I am.</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-81397056858040804642017-11-23T05:43:00.003-08:002017-11-23T05:43:46.614-08:00Seasonal work<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Been under the weather. Yet another phrase I cannot parse. The sickness delayed some things, but only delayed. However, even healthy I likely would've procrastinated in doing the research needed to get the latest project off the ground. I never did go back to looking into agents or researching publishers. I just don't feel right unless I'm writing. Maybe I should talk to someone about that.<br /><br />So, for a few different reasons, waking up at 5 with a story playing in my head was less than ideal. And for a few different other reasons, I rolled out of bed at 5:30 with my hands out, trying to catch the thoughts tumbling out of my mind.<br /><br />Two thousand words in, chiding the sun about finally getting up, I was happier, in general, and I think I was better, too, having learned some things already about my world and the characters in it. It's going to be a longer prologue, I think, an introduction to the internal logic of the space and some of the major actors moving about. I also think I'm going to confuse some people when they find out the innocently likeable character at the center of things is actually an antagonist. I wasn't sure how to feel about that. Wasn't on purpose, it just sort of happened.<br /><br />I was recently given another name for this part of the year in America: Native American Maafa. I don't have any indigenous people friends, so I had no one to bounce that off of, in regards to which, if either, is more offensive. I quite like the idea of bending the popular name towards the short supply of thanks already being distributed. I feel like that yearly uptick, if that's all it ever is, is good. It's also interesting to note that the timing of all of this also coincided with the research I had to do for my story, concerning the culture and myths of native peoples. It's almost enough to think that there's more than coincidence at work.<br /><br />Mysticism aside, I am very thankful today, for this tumbleweed in my brain. It turns and turns and spins and spins and rolls, on and on. It almost feels like it isn't me, like I'm holding onto something else, simply along for the ride. And I love it. It doesn't always love me, but I think today might just be the best day to make friends out of family.</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-31136535923046493812017-11-16T04:32:00.000-08:002017-11-16T04:32:12.798-08:00Either, or<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">"I want them to be great writers."<br /><br />I'm not sure why I jumped at that, but I did, as if I didn't need, or want, to hear anything else. Thinking back, there wasn't an ounce of pause in me, not a mote of modesty to wonder at my inability to help with that, or to wonder just how far I had to go to be great myself. Today I start a new job with that as my mission statement.<br /><br />Some years back, a bunch actually, my mentor told me about his lament at discovering the distinction between "a writer who teaches" and a "teacher who writes," and how he had looked up in recent days and discovered that he had become the latter, and the former, his goal, had gotten away from him who knows when. Like a lot of my lessons, I recall thinking to myself, "well, I don't want that to happen to me." So far, it hasn't. <br /><br />Speaking of things that haven't been happening. NaNoSubMo is tanking. I started research only yesterday about publishing and submitting and agents. I learned that August is known as the Dead Month, and is a industry-wide period where most gate keepers take vacations. That was interesting enough. I also began the slow, slow process of combing through agent entries, looking for what I have no idea. The right smiling face or a write-up. Everything I've read so far seems to imply that step 1 is accruing a list of agents that are looking for manuscript(s) like mine, and step 2 is develop submission packets to the letter for each. Step 3 is send them all. Non-discriminatory submission, big small near far. I cannot help but think of the Last Starfighter. Spinning in a frenzy shooting in all directions, and then the panicked calm, the nothing and the waiting and the hoping.<br /><br />And to counter that, as always, the writing is going well. I'm still in the brainstorming phase, linking together concepts and ideas and researching the tactile aspects of what I'll be writing about, what the characters will see, how those things will affect the story, and where the story will be able to go as a result. I have a soft date with a friend to let her poke holes in what I've got set up, a safety check before I actually put weight on things to make sure nothing falls through. After that, I think I will be just about ready to commit to a chapter, and then another. These stages are familiar, these steps, even though they are a little different every time. As per usual, these realizations led me to decide I had learned something about myself. I tried out my knowledge on a friend, to which they say "I could've told you that."<br /><br />So, there are some things that I am hesitant to be sure about. I have a certain disdain for arrogance, and I think it's foolish to assume that one knows anything. And then there are things that move me to action prior to even a whisper of thought. I jaunt, and before I know it I'm somewhere else.<br /><br /><br /></div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-15544143964583858912017-11-04T13:04:00.003-07:002017-11-04T13:04:50.715-07:00I digress<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I think I need to go camping.<br /><br />Let me back up.<br /><br />The submission is done. That one is. Going in, I thought that I would wash my mind of the stress, distract myself after all the triple checking and document attaching with trying to start and then to finish the next story. It is November after all, and I've avoided NaNoWriMo every year someone has asked. I was either in the middle of something, or just finished something else. I finished the submission process November 1, so it only made sense.<br /><br />Except they only allowed one novel per author. I had worked on sharpening three. One fell out because they didn't want that kind of story, and another because, well, there was only one hole and I had two pegs. Instead of feeling like I was ready to move on, I felt like the task wasn't done. I finally looked up the Atlanta Writer's Conference details, and learned how many weeks I was late. They have agents, from publishers most people have heard of. And they have a finite number of slots for people to sit down and have their work critiqued. Every last slot of every last editor was full. I realized then what a lot of people already knew: getting in the door is very important and even more difficult. Never mind the money. So, I did some nodding, and made a little promise to myself not to be late next year. I thought up NaNoSubMo (the Sub is for Submission) with the intent to find homes for the other two novels I wasn't doing anything with.<br /><br />That stalled when I walked face first into another story. It was one of those really obvious, low hanging kinds of situations. A haystack of needles in a forest. Or something. I talked with a friend about it, because it was through observing him that the idea occurred to me. The people in my life are kind. I got nothing but encouragement. I was with this friend to pick his brain about something else, is the irony. He's an outdoorsman and off-roader and possessor of other word salad titles, and I've known for a while that my next book has survivalist elements. There will be camping and climbing and scrounging. Squatting outdoors and filtering rain water. I cannot express to you how far the real life me is from such ideas. And I wanted to keep it that way. But the mentor I mention a lot in this space gave me the advice to write what I know, and I've found it to be true that when two authors describe pulling on a rope, the one that has actually used their back and felt the bite on their palms has a deeper reservoir to pull from. So, if I want to know what it's like to track game over land, then...<br /><br />So, here we are. At the beginning of NaNoSubMo, and I'm already not doing what I decided to be doing. If I'm being honest, I don't know the first thing about finding publishers. I know that I have found some in the past, and they come in many different flavors, at varying levels of quality. What I don't know is how to find the ones I need to be looking for. I know what I want. I ever know what I don't want. So I guess this will be another one of those journeys, marked by scrapes on the palms and sore elbows from all the falling. <br /><br />I really hope this isn't what actual hunting is like.</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-56562027645027271002017-10-31T12:26:00.001-07:002017-10-31T12:26:29.610-07:00Am for now<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Tomorrow is the first day of the open submission period I've been aiming at with all the recent refinements and edits. Honestly, I finished the last, latest read-through a week early. Early morning head aches and close-faced line reading made for some dizzying moments. I felt better and worse about everything at the same time. I took a couple days off and went back through the submission guidelines again. Last year they got over 1200 entries, and 300 were rejected because the authors failed to follow instructions. Recent events prompted me to go through some extreme measures to ensure I wouldn't be in that unfortunate group.<br /><br />A one-sentence summary and a synopsis no longer than two, double-spaced, 12-point Times New Roman font pages. At first, I thought I had three books to send, then I read how they don't want young adult. Then I did some heavy deliberation on what young adult fiction is and how the term is defined. What clinched it, I think, is that when I went to write a sentence to summarize the book, or a synopsis to concisely detail its qualities, I kept coming back to the phrase "coming of age." I couldn't betray the story by trying to wedge it into a box any more than I could do the work a disservice by mislabeling it. I was also a little surprised at how easy the summaries and synopses came. I had a moment where I thought it was going to be a painful hurdle, was going to be difficult (after all, I freeze up at the thought of the elevator pitch), and then in the next moment the sentences were coming to me. I also thought it would be difficult because I could remember the last time I stopped to seriously make some submissions. Things were harder then.<br /><br />I worked on them yesterday, the sentences the synopses, in the morning. I set them down and circled back at lunch, when I looked over them again, and fiddled with the diction, the cadence, the punctuation. I peeked one more time before bed, and I got up today to rinse and repeat. Sometime in the night a west coast writer friend traded some thoughts with me. I lamented the idea that synopses seem, on principle, to be a kind of deflowering, an unveiling of all the discovery and nuance. I once heard a story of a young woman auditioning to be an exotic dancer. A shady man in a shady office told her to disrobe completely while checking his fantasy team's scoring. He explained in matter of fact terms to her horrified face that he had to sample the goods before he could put them on display. My west coast friend opined that there could be some mystery, that it needed to be alluring in its own way, even as it revealed everything the story was. I woke up with that on my mind and went back to work.<br /><br />I feel confident that I have done my due diligence. And because I so often feel that way, I have come to really despise luck, on a fundamental level. I rather prefer the control of direct input and output. I pull the lever, the door opens. But that just isn't how it works with the kinds of opportunity people dream about. We work, and we work, and we work, all the while hoping that it would result in something commensurate. That we can tabulate the bitter alchemy of how much sweat, and how much blood, is equivalent to a mote of success. Sometimes it is very difficult to be satisfied that we tried our best, yet still fell flat on our faces for reasons outside of our control. I met a person recently who admitted that she had done very little work, that she had an agent waiting, and that she just couldn't commit to putting words down. <br /><br />I caught up with another friend, too, local, but I still never see her. She's a dreamer, like so many of the people I get along with are dreamers, and in the time since we last saw each other she had earned some mentors in her field, and definitive numbers for what she had to achieve to get to where she wanted to go. I was really happy for her. I was also really happy for myself, relieved to remember that I had those kinds of people still in my life. Another item that had to go into the submission package was a paragraph about me, the author. I didn't mention it, but dredging up who I was made me remember who I came from, and how my parents and I don't talk about my stories, or my dreams. Haven't for years. And maybe there's something to unpack in all of that, but in every way, I want nothing more than to abandon that on the nearest flat surface and distract myself with things I can control.<br /><br />I want to go, so badly, and have no idea where I'm headed.</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-48929416442846771522017-10-11T05:05:00.000-07:002017-10-11T05:05:08.473-07:00Playing up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I recently posed a question to a creative professional I know. I presented to him this comparison, a created work completed in ones mid to late 20s, which was over time revisited and in some ways reimagined, versus the second or third draft of a piece completed years later, early to mid 30s. The ages are arbitrary. What I was getting at is one piece was done without the benefit of the extra years of wisdom and understanding, but it was edited and retooled, whereas the other was less modified but it benefitted the most from all available years of experience.<br /><br />His first answer was not an answer. He saw what I was getting at, at what I was really trying to investigate, and he said, "some ideas are just better than others." That struck a cord with me, but more on that later. I further clarified that it wasn't about good or bad, it was more about what is more valuable, what should, everything else being equal, be the better work, the one we complete at our most experienced, or the one we complete with the most diligence? Then he said, "the one I work on the most will be the most technically sound," with no hesitation. We talked about the gestation period of ideas, and how they many times benefit from going back and working them over again, holding them upside down and shaking them vigorously.<br /><br />I have finished the first read through of the number of novels I plan on submitting come November. I intended to start on my sci-fi piece, the oldest one, the one I went back and completely re-wrote, the one on its latest draft. I meant to start there because in the back of my mind, I considered it the weakest. I defaulted to thinking that my newer stories were better, not just because they were newer, but because of what them being newer meant. Like the conversation with&nbsp; my friend, each of them was standing on the one that came before it, each work below it was a kind of creative soil that it was able to benefit from in growing. But as usual, I did not start on that novel. The novel I finished working through was the middle child. Initially I had intended to send it off to a couple readers, and just wanted to make sure the beginning was as crisp as I could manage. Much like a pencil in a sharpener, I just kept going. A week passed, and I had chucked my strategy out of the nearest window. <br /><br />Yesterday I finally started on the sci fi offering. It was not what I remembered it to be. Since finishing its latest draft, I've written two other novels, and been mostly satisfied with them both. I suppose my excitement over those dimmed my fascination with the other. I wouldn't say it is a bad story. It has a certain density that fools one into remembering that things that happened earlier in the book happened later, that stretches the summary of "things that happened" over the novel's breadth. I looked around for the person that had stolen my confidence in what was, at worst, a very decent effort. Of course, there was no one about but Time. I began to suspect that absence and fondness don't have as good a marriage as most think. I also wondered at the words, that some ideas are simply better than others, and how to decide who I loved more between my children.<br /><br />All of that is to say I am working. The novels are getting better, and I strive to make that a truth everyday. <br /><br />I told that same friend that I was thinking of going back to working on plays. My first effort was terrible, the kind of terrible that makes a person quit and do something else immediately. He confided in me that he had a similar experience, that somewhere among his papers was a play he wrote in undergrad that was maybe the worst thing he had ever done. He interrupted my asking if he would show it to me by saying that I would never see it. The reason I told him that I wanted to go back and work on plays is because I had done such a terrible job. I suppose to some degree I thought I was better than what I produced, but it wasn't so much that I gave up because it was bad, more that I left it alone because I had no idea about how to fix it. Plays I've read recently, bad ones, high school ones, showered me with insight about what not to do, and in so not doing, what to do. The idea that I could improve, or maybe rectify an error, has been persistently consuming. My friend admitted that he almost always took the easy path. His career decision was him playing to his strengths, and he is very successful. <br /><br />Whereas it feels very often like I am making the difficult choice for the sake of its challenge. But I can't help but think about what we earn when we overcome walls of varying heights and the difference in those rewards. They say you learn more from failure. They say failure proves that you're trying. <br /><br />I'm still not sure yet if I someday want to be among they, or not.</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-46745645388172352562017-10-02T10:02:00.000-07:002017-10-02T10:02:03.013-07:00Gain pain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It's been years since I started this, and I'll be the first admit that I haven't done a good job. I don't write often enough. I don't put in pictures or links, both of which would make me more internet savvy, beyond creating a better looking and more digestible online essay. But I've always committed to this in the spirit that maybe I could help some people by being honest with my own struggles. At least, should anyone ever ask me for advice, that's how I plan on giving it. Don't take this road, or don't open that door. I will, with the best of my talent, tell them what road I took, what door I opened, and how it all looked when the wash came out.<br /><br />In that spirit: feedback. Once upon a time I submitted 7 of the 11 pages of a short story for a competition. I got called into my mentor's office, where he asked me to look at my submission, and then asked my confused face if I noticed anything wrong. He told me to be careful about that in the future. I went on to get first place in a contest I should've lost outright. Networking. I bring that up because I did almost that exact thing just the other week. A file for submission, the first 10 thousand words of a novel (a separate file), was not the same first 10 thousand words of the latest copy, because I did not update all of my files correctly. I was rejected. There is no guarantee that the result would've been different had they seen the best version of that story, but that doesn't excuse my negligence. This same file was given to a couple readers for feedback, in preparation for this march to November where I will be putting all of my feet forward, and hopefully they'll all be pretty good. All of that is to say, the file had issues apparent enough to me that I had strongly edited it into something else.<br /><br />"I left out minor problems and grammatical edits because I do narrative design and I think that's more important. If you do further work on this I would like to know. It sounds like a mix of Dragon Age and Witcher which I absolutely love. My criticism was much harsher this go around because I didn't think this was as polished as your last and also because I believe it has potential and flowery praise wouldn't help you one bit.<br /><br />"Too many metaphors/similes/comparisons. These were used almost as a crutch for your writing. A metaphor can really push your work when done well, but too many can ruin your writing. Comparisons ran rampant to the point of being confusing...<br /><br />"I really liked the characters and their backstories. Each are interesting, but the way they were delivered needs work because I couldn't finish this story."<br /><br />Versus<br /><br />"It looks like you're headed into good, solid fantasy territory - the pre-Renaissance European parallels the market seems to expect. You're doing a good job setting up your co-protagonists in parallel. I already like them both...<br /><br />"Your prose still has those lovely turns and embellishments I've envied all these years. That's pleasant to see again... the world seems a little thin to me, though. A bit dreamlike. Like dreams, it's occasionally missing sensory elements. Smells, temperatures, defining cultural elements, emphases on local crops or herds of the stamps on places of local personalities... it could just be me and my love of description, which I know many people hate...<br /><br />"But for all that, I'm damned curious about the history that led to the situation you've set up, and how the magic words, and how it goes bad. I'm definitely engaged."<br /><br />And versus isn't even the right word, not really. I think the larger point is that any creative type is bound to get a lot of feedback, and the most important bit is how one responds to it. Honestly, it took me a day to process the first one, and I was immediately ecstatic to receive the second. But the fact of the matter is I have way more rejections than acceptances, and it would be foolish to think that they're all wrong, and I'm all right. The truth is probably I didn't prepare as well as I could have, in regards to researching who I submitted to and what they were looking for, and that at least a couple of the places didn't give my work the diligent perusing it deserved. The fact very well could be that the feedback I dislike the most is the kind I need most to absorb. Advice I've been given over the years rolls between listening to all of it, and taking in none of it. Grain of salt, I think is the common wisdom. Through it all, whatever I end up revealing reflects on me, so no matter who it displeases, or confuses, it will still bear the likeness of my spirit, so I should be satisfied, if no one else is.<br /><br />It's a troublesome recipe. I guess, the short version is, for whoever might be listening, getting better is probably supposed to hurt.<br />&nbsp;</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-69613632038061052002017-09-26T09:21:00.002-07:002017-09-26T09:21:38.021-07:00Be-foresight<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I took an email journey the other day, looking for a name to put with a face, and realized that all of the accounts I still use only go back to 2012. In every case, when I got to the beginning, I peered into the mists for awhile, trying to use my memory where there existed no physical record. The strange juxtaposition was between knowing I had history, memories, correspondences, but there was no way for me to verify any of it. Like it never happened. <br /><br />For instance, in November of 2006 my mentor took me to the local, yearly writer's conference. Graduation was coming, and I had finally settled on what would be stamped on my degree. I had taken every creative writing class, every writing class of any kind, my alma mater had to offer. He was the one who told me I could do it for a living. He was the one who told me I had talent. He was also the one who told me that if I did anything else with my life, I would make more money. What he said at the conference was something to the effect of "go, look around, ask questions." <br /><br />Eleven years later, I think I get it. Networking is important. Part of the deal is doing the work, the research, the notes, the drafts, the sketches, the pages and pages and pages and pages. Another part of the deal is telling people that you are doing the work. Every now and then I tell my friends. Even rarer, some of them will even ask. Writer friends, whom I try to support because I know how much I need it, but with very little beyond encouragement. One of the last people I told referenced me to someone else, who directed me to yet another website about things I felt I already knew. Scrolling down though, I found some posts with the heading "How I Found My Agent." These I clicked on. These, I thought, would finally contain some useful information. I read about the rejections. I read about the waiting. I read about the frustration. Then I read about how the person was recommended by someone else, who was given the name of a specific agent that the other person knew. It wasn't magic. It didn't even sound like hard work.<br /><br />So when he said to go and look and ask questions, that is exactly what he meant. I can't be sure, but I know I did a lot of looking. I certainly went. But I passed through that conference like a ghost, speaking to no one, and being spoken to by no one. The following summer I was offered a prestigious opportunity where I workshopped with professional authors at a retreat on a distant college campus. I took one picture, I memorized no names. I left with a phone number, which I used once or twice, but otherwise the only thing I took from it was more repetitions from different mentors. Thinking back now, the conference was the result of networking. I wouldn't have known it existed otherwise, much less could've attended. My mentor bought my ticket, and drove me there. The same for the writer retreat. Someone, somewhere, was looking out for me.<br /><br />And the drop of knowledge didn't fall into the well of my understanding until ten years later.<br /><br />So, the novel is complete. After the third draft read-through, it is a serviceable 76,000 words or thereabouts. I am taken to using "finished, not perfect" and am waiting on feedback to see if there are other things that could still be done to make it just a little better. Because I found out (because someone told me) that a publisher is opening its doors to submission for the month of November. I have three novels completed, so the current plan is to submit all three. November is also the month of the writers conference, the one with industry professionals, publishers, and agents. I don't speak much with the man who took me over a decade ago. We exchange texts on his birthday, and he tells me to write something. Much like that relationship, I am also not the same person. I do make some of the same mistakes. But I am so much more durable in regards to rejection, and I have developed a certain measure of confidence in my eventual success. I have no proof, but it is as real to me as the memory of something I deeply regret.<br /><br /></div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-12227092658066445152017-09-12T07:03:00.001-07:002017-09-12T07:03:48.470-07:00Missing words<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Silver-Age-J-E-Cammon-ebook/dp/B0751JCNHH/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Silver Age is up, and for sale.</a> I made the mistake of checking the sales on the self-publishing interface. The lesson was painful, but also valuable. Honestly, I learned a lot during that process. Not least of which is what the mastery of Photoshop can do for an artist. It's such a ubiquitous concept that I misappropriated the use of the program with the population of the skill. The fact of the matter is, it is very, very powerful and expensive software, and it allows for an incredible range of manipulation. I am not sure how yet, but I vow to do better with my cover artists in the future. I also have a better appreciation for the work publishers do. There will always be disputes, I think, but I also believe it was good to see how the other side toils.<br /><br />In the mean time, I have been writing, as per usual. The novel has a handful of chapters yet, with today's drafting, and the nightmares are right on time. Several ideas mashed together the other night and a horribly, monstrous story was the result, stitched together and unable to articulate its own misery. I did not wake up in a cold sweat, but there was a chill in me, to think that I had done it all for nothing. All of that is to say, I've almost gotten it all down, and the realization that it might suck is on the moment's heals.<br /><br />For completed novels, I was discouraged by the editor getting back to me with the "something's come up" email. I felt the door closing again, but the idea occurred to me that I didn't have to go through her. Maybe the other editors at the publisher would remember me. She did say they all wanted to see work from me in the future. Maybe they'll remember? They got back to me with the "we'll get back to you" email. So, on that front, I am again exercising patience. I have no way of knowing if I'm better at this than I was five years ago, or ten. If I'm being honest, it feels like I'm worse, but who really knows.<br /><br />The next project is growing in my mind almost every day. I don't have anything to compare it to, but it feels really good sometimes, to be fertile with these things. The latest idea will likely usurp an older one which, while I put all available thought and effort into it, might have just been inherently flawed. I look at novels I wrote even three years ago, and the ones I'm working on and thinking about now, and I can detect certain shifts in how I go about things. I feel like I learn something new every time. Sometimes, without meaning to, I catch glimpses of the kinds of writers I want my career to emulate, and the amount of gray hair I see makes me marvel at how much I might learn by the time I get to that point. I see other things, too, that I won't comment on at this time.<br /><br />This latest particular lesson revolved around missing words. On several occasions, I've had entire chapters deleted, or discovered that a given section was just headed in the wrong direction. I've scrapped, even lost, sections before, but this time around it has been much more conscious. I paced my apartment yesterday as the power flickered thinking about the unease I was experiencing about the latest drafted section. I thought about what it was not doing, and where it was leading things, what needed to happen, and how that led things in a more interesting direction. It feels like the most mindful I've been to date, and some other things clicked into place.<br /><br />I hate admitting how the downs make the ups that much more satisfying.&nbsp;</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-60697968865824787352017-07-26T08:20:00.002-07:002017-07-26T08:20:40.708-07:00Maybe it's me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I've been accused of being a fixer, on more than one occasion. Something happens, something negative, and the person wants to share, or vent, or commiserate. All I can ever focus on is how to fix it, change it, prevent it from happening again. Today I received some very disappointing news dealing with my own situation, and my first reaction was to tinker. I was relieved to know that I'm nothing if not consistent, and I was able to fully understand why I am not apt to passively mourn. I thought, well, I'm going to be sad, and this is going to be difficult, that's the easy part. That part happens whether I am productive or not. I also thought that maybe it was somehow my fault, and looking back, I recognized that I usually assume that's the case. That it's safer to believe that it's my fault, that somehow that is the less arrogant conclusion. Or maybe if it's my fault, I don't forfeit control.<br /><br />I haven't blogged, naturally. I went into a frenzy over the last rejection, driven to figure out what I had done wrong, what needed to be fixed in my writing to get me higher. I learned some things again, in that quest. Not all editors are good, and not all editors are good matches. I came across more of that vague kind of feedback that is repeated often enough in books about writing, tips, and tricks, and techniques, methodologies for how to write publishable fiction. My core rejected such notions, feeling strongly that great works have been read, and envied, and studied, and all of the how-to's were developed based on patterns, tendencies, and commonalities found following failed attempts at duplication. Whereas my belief about such things is much more spiritual than mechanical. My earliest doctrine was that good writing gets published. I only speak to that mentor on birthdays, and yet I still believe it.<br /><br />I have been doing the work. A friend suggested an online project sharing software, and I eventually caved. I think it works. There is a record out there in the cloud, an electric file detailing what I want to accomplish, and my progress in all of those things. It exposes me, and my sloth, and that itch of accountability compels me to work. Because I am familiar with failure, but I never want the reason I did not succeed to be that I did not try hard enough. Consequently, the latest project is on wheels. Chapter 9 is in the works, and I have the first six chapters sent out to readers, to get some perspective on what the novel is, or could be, to someone other than myself. I also have formatting being conducted to self publish a novella I wrote some years back. It seemed time. This process has introduced me to figuring out cover art, and the many entry fields of Amazon, along with editor rates, and editor results. I want to know what it's like; I want to add that arrow to my quiver.<br /><br />I also recently spoke to a friend about hopes and dreams, in regards to what it takes to create the circumstances where those things can be realized. I understood, through that interaction, that the people I respected most in my life were the ones making that transition, were toiling to change something only they could see into something everyone could believe. I know enough of those people that interacting with someone who just talked about what they wanted and then never did it was an unusual occurrence. I couldn't imagine that, even now, in the pit of my latest failure. I thought something was going to happen, thought something was going to work out, but it was just another mirage. And yet, I cannot feel totally defeated.<br /><br />I suppose because there are also miracles. I had a second chance at a first impression. A friend read my work, and was friendly about the feedback. They liked it, they said. They thought it was good, they said. They offered to edit it. I did not turn down the opportunity to have a better version of one of my stories, at worst different. When they read it, sincerely, it became something else for them. They came back with questions, and excitement. They realized it was really good. It took me some time to absorb the kindness of their initial dishonesty, at the same time as the pleasure of feeling adequate. However it did take the second read. Not the kind of reading, I imagined, that occurred over the slush bin, where many of my previous efforts were discarded. So, some providence to go along with the calamity.<br /><br />Feeling crushed beneath boulders makes me feel stronger. I wonder if this is what madness feels like.<br /><br /><br /></div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-80486968134733462402017-05-11T14:15:00.001-07:002017-05-11T14:15:08.251-07:00Not today and not here<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Tomorrow I will be embarking on a road trip. I can't remember the last time I travelled anywhere physically. If I'm being honest, everyone asking me if I'm ready for the trip makes me feel unprepared. I will also admit that as I type this, I have yet to pack. <br /><br />This week I have been working in construction. Or deconstruction,&nbsp;I suppose. I was hired as a helping hand to tear something down. It had been built poorly, apparently, and was very long not in use, covered in all manner of discarded and disregarded items. A dumping ground on top of a lost space. It was interesting, unearthing the mysteries there, and even more so to finally begin to get at the miserable undercarriage. Dangerously rickety and half-fallen over, and yet, when the crowbars and hammers and in the end, chainsaws, went to work, the fixture proved mightily fastened to the world. The whole thing reminded me of a number of stubborn old people I've known. At one point in the process, a large pile of steel had to be moved from its tattered pile to a nearby dumpster. It took me a sweaty hour, and somewhere through the process, I found the following sentence.<br /><br />That summer, I became acquainted with steel. <br /><br />I had to bleed for it, all the narrow swipes and near misses that tore my clothes notwithstanding, and even in the blazing heat it seemed worth it. A few hundred ordeals like this, I thought to myself, and I might have a few pages of a story I will always be proud of. <br /><br />On that note, the glacier has shifted in regards to the revisions I submitted last fall. I'm not complaining. It was nice to know that progress was getting made. I am still very interested in seeing what my first published book might be able to do with an older, more seasoned me steering it. I still love the story, and think others will love it, too. I'm also looking into self-publishing my pulp novella, and testing the waters of audio books, simultaneously. I've done some research, and I think it would work well, especially with some of the changes I plan on attempting to how that process seems to work.<br /><br />On the other hand, there is the one story I started which is dead in the water. I think about it, and settle my spirit upon it, and there is no resonance at all. I wanted to finish it, and there are plenty of excuses ready at hand as to why I never will, but I think the foundational truth is that I only loved it fleetingly. I'm disappointed, but I hope something will come of the initial push I made putting words to it. <br /><br />So, in short, this update is like all the other updates. The mountain taketh and the mountain giveth. Being as worn down as I have been this week has provided some new perspective, about how to measure a well in darkness, and the strength of old, dying things. </div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-39416176528381867932017-03-16T12:59:00.001-07:002017-03-16T12:59:14.517-07:00Good enough to dream<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Rejection is fairly commonplace, I think. I was told that I could only expect a single interview out of twenty submitted applications. I don't know the numbers for post graduate, but several of my emails in reply had the phrase "we receive hundreds of applications every year," as some sort of explanation. Romance is romance. People look for "the one," and singling up is implied in monogamy, but that's a needle in quite the haystack. It's interesting because other words I hear as often as I hear the word no begin to lose meaning as I drift down into the rabbit hole of what words mean, the why of letters, and the bedrock of language concept.<br /><br />For artistic types. rejection is even more apart of their existence. I've seen hours of interviews concerning successful creative professionals and their childhoods, their formative years, and the pre-fame portions of their careers and how most people they encountered had no conception of what it would be to become an actor, or a dancer. Musician, sculptor, writer. It wasn't just rejection though, it was denial. It wasn't a no. It was a never. One of the interviewees said that "people had such trouble because they lacked imagination. Because that's our job, as artists, to make something where there previously existed nothing, and it's a difficult thing to conceive." In the midst of all of mine, I really thought that I had maintained an optimistic stance. I didn't stop writing after all. I didn't stop striving.<br /><br />But then I got an email.<br /><br />"Dear Mr. Cammon,<br /><br />Thank you for giving [us] the opportunity to consider [your work]..."<br /><br />And then my brain shut off. I thought to myself, well here is yet another rejection letter I can use to pad my couch cushions. Print it out, put it on a wall. Burn it. Part of my brain kept reading, but mostly I had checked out, walked into the kitchen, and began rummaging for breakfast.<br /><br />"We've looked at your manuscript sample carefully and find the premise interesting enough that we'd like to request the full manuscript."<br /><br />I looked at glass of juice as if to confirm what I had just read. The bright liquid swayed against the curve, the shaking of a bubbly head.<br /><br />It wasn't a no. It was a maybe, so worth celebrating to some degree, but what had struck me most immediately was that I had already assumed it was a no. I stepped backwards in time to imagine when this had happened, this change. When, during my darting fingers across my keyboard a literal million times. I was disappointed in myself, and that spun into maybe thinking it had taken this long even to garner this half-yes because of my attitude about &nbsp;my own chances. Loved ones had suggested I maybe try something else, stopped mentioning things at all when I had quietly avoided their counsel. Had part of me sided with them?<br /><br />They want me to go back through, before I send the entire thing, and address some "malapropisms."<br /><br />I have not moved an inch since. <br /><br />There was a non fiction wonder I started and never finished, about the owner of a minor league baseball team in upstate New York. It was a lovable cast of characters, individuals wedged within the reality of being better at the sport than the average person, but were still not good enough to make a living from their efforts. I found commonalities between the characters and myself, of course. Maybe that's why I didn't finish it. Maybe, I wanted to write my own ending. I found the title very fitting, and memorable. But thinking back on it now, just because a person is good enough to dream, does not mean that they necessarily will. &nbsp;</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-2754990287297695852016-12-23T05:36:00.001-08:002016-12-23T05:36:07.907-08:00Stopped, starting<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I wish I could say that rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. But there aren't any rumors. I stopped putting words into this white space, and no one noticed. Life moves on. Yet I felt a failure by not coming back around and writing something. I've learned so much in the past few months, but putting it all down here feels exhausting.&nbsp;<div><br /></div><div>I will say this though, I finished the novel before year's end like I planned. I didn't finish it before summer, or fall, but in this latest task I did not fall short. I met my quota of 90,000 words, even went a little over. Come 2017, I will have two unattached works to shop to agents and publishers, and it feels good to be able to say that. Interestingly enough, a random opportunity cropped up to put the already finished work in front of a person that reads for such goals. That was nice, to have been introduced to that person, and it was nice to check the file before I sent it, and discover that the novel to be sent is also close to 90k. I'm not on my way. I am still tinkering in the dark, but if ever anyone shines a light, they will see a rack of wrought works.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>The reason I am here is because I was writing down the second story idea I'd had in as many days. It was an interesting gestation, to put one novel away, to not be thinking about it in almost all instances of writing, then to feel other things come rushing in like ocean waves. The first I jotted down onto a notepad I've taken to using, a broad, star-ward science fiction story covered in multiple shorts. Like Silver Age, which I learned is pulp, and which I am working on making a serial from (I even have some people who have volunteered to voice act), but even less of a straight line.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>In the same way that idea is an evolution of something I tried years ago, so is this new, fantasy epic. I had some strenuous success re-writing one of my older novels, and in a similar vein, I will be re-imagining an older story that had decent bones. It won't have the same name, or many of the same characters, but some of the concepts ought to be recognizable to people who were with me in the beginning. It is exciting for me. A gift, even. I am very happy to be back at it. I love most facets of it, but this part is undeniably the most optimistic. Like watching a child grow.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-59764045175897469162016-08-15T06:44:00.001-07:002016-08-15T06:44:19.143-07:00The yolk of suppose<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I've been on a bit of a break. Hiatus might be the better word. I imagined that fifty years ago, or a hundred fifty years ago, writing was different. Largely, writing was writing. Even if a poet wrote alone, just for herself, relatives who found her work later could rather easily publish those writings, and make livings off of posthumous efforts. Now, I have to acknowledge that in regards to being a writer, it doesn't quite do anymore to simply write. To say that I've been writing seems to count far less than successfully convincing others that I am a writer. It's an awful, tangled, convoluted mess.<br /><br />I was inspired by an acquaintance who made some progress with her own struggles. Through her I learned a lot about comic books and the process for making them. We had largely talked about fiction but I discovered one of her many passions was graphic novels. She went around to conventions in the region, shook hands, did research, smiled, proved herself driven, did the work, and was accepted into an anthology. I was very happy for her, and very happy to know that there is a road. There are steps to take. Of course, what I am missing the most of is the conventions, the shaking hands. The smiling. I suppose if the universe speaks, it is on us to listen.<br /><br />On that note, I am convinced that my query letter fell on deaf ears. There is something about the hollow rejection of a lack of reply that is particularly galling to me. Rejection is a part of life, after all. But there is a level of human affectation in the word no, or the eye contact that precedes a sad head shaking. I've been rejected in person without the word, and without the eye contact, and it is a stab to the center of a person when they go that far beneath notice. Sending submissions out into the aether and receiving no reply is the same. I can only assume that unanswered prayers feel very similarly. I did encounter something like advice on how to craft a query letter, so that is the next step. I'm supposing that is the next step.<br /><br />In the mean time, I am still writing. Some ideas are less good. My own comic book idea, when I put some weight on it, crumbled through my fingers, and I didn't really lament at all. Another idea I had was smothered under the swirling doubt of "oh, that sounds just like..." The novel is up to chapter 19. The break started off strong, but some difficulties slowed my progress. Actually, they slow me still, and this is my attempt to generate locomotion. Decorating empty space with words, seeing how they stick, tearing them down and hanging up others.<br /><br /><br /></div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-34644564988190590632016-07-08T07:07:00.002-07:002016-07-08T07:07:50.092-07:00That letter i<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Some weeks ago I made a decision about the agent search, which was to swing for the fences. Recently, I was given cause to question that kind of mentality, but the thought hasn't yet fully formed. In the meantime, what came across my mind was to go after the agents of authors whom I admire. Beyond writing in similar genres, with similar (read: derivative) style, I felt like those agents would best understand the talent they represent, and be able to realize something comparable.&nbsp;<div><br /></div><div>This week I finally acted on that. Idle searching of the internet in a sweltering, morning parking lot revealed a name, and a search of the name revealed the title of an agency. A few clicks from there, and I was faced with their submission guidelines:</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;;">"Send us an unadorned, unaccompanied letter as your first step, whether paper or e-mail. If we're interested, we'll e-mail you an invitation to submit additional materials and instructions on how to do so."</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="background-color: white;">I've gotten a lot of practice over the years writing letters, and getting rejected. I have a clearer and clearer idea of what I might say, and how I might say it in whatever context. In reading those lines was surprised. I wrote some novels after all, as a kind of practice, then I wrote another novel, then I re-wrote that novel. After all that I thought I might be able to use it as some sort of climbing tool, or shielding device, or identification card, something. Here, it's useless, unless I can write a letter that will stand out among all the other letters, enough to warrant a reply, and a positive one at that. It creates a startlingly dry chill, even in the bright blaze of summer.&nbsp;</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="background-color: white;">In other, less complex news, the writing continues. I stopped after chapter 10 to go over what I had done, and what I had planned to do, and how all of that had rolled out. Then I struck forward again, and I'm up to chapter 13. My notes and outline remain disjointed, in different physical locations and in various stages of disrepair. This time I have not used an electronic outline, and that has been very challenging. On the other hand, it has forced me to keep in mind what my narrative goals are, and that has kept the story in mind at almost all times. Barring head trauma, it might even work out better this way.&nbsp;</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="background-color: white;">So, the year is half done, and in regards to making this an occasion of networking, I can recall some successes and failures both. As always seems the case, there are some things that could work out, if the stars align correctly. It keeps happening, and I keep hoping, despite a steady diet of evidence that I should maybe be doing something else. I guess that means that so far, for whatever pratfalls, I remain mostly in tact. Or maybe that I was a little broken from the start.&nbsp;</span></span></div></div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-20602910339214212502016-05-19T07:23:00.000-07:002016-05-19T07:23:38.547-07:00A rest-room wall<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I had two weeks off from work at the end of Spring semester, and I had it in mind to up the pace on the new project. It started off slowly, but eventually I made good on my goal, and churned out six chapters over the two-week period. It could've been more had I really applied myself, but it turns out chapter 10 was a good place to stop and reassess.<div><br /></div><div>This is going much differently than the last fantasy novel, the last novel even. The unreliable narrator has been really interesting to work with. It was unwieldy at first, but then I recognized the possibilities of a story teller that has personality. The only thing about the technique so far that I do not like is how confining it is. Normally, I work with third person, and I like it because it helps to tell a more comprehensive story. Lots of angles from lots of characters, and it afforded me the opportunity to choose the best perches to tell the story from. With this first person idea, I only get the one angle, so the success or failure of the story, in terms of interest, has to come from that source, so I have to make sure that source is thoroughly good.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm also looking into map making at this very late stage. Normally, it's taboo for me to start talking about places and directions and landmarks without having a fuller understanding of where those sorts of things are. That's why chapter 10 was a good place to stop. There was a critical mass of places and directions and movement that to go much farther, it would be a detriment to the story. This, too, has been different because usually, I have a map, and I introduce characters to placing knowing how they relate to other locales. This time, I've had people moving about already, so now I can design a map that has a skeleton of needs that the story is providing. I can already tell you that I like the previous way best, but something I did learn from this method is that maps can have rough drafts, too, and that once I anchor the things I've canonized, I can rearrange the other details to my liking. Not sure how far that rabbit hole goes.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>In other news, the networking is going poorly. Logistics can be hard, before all the smiling and hand shaking there is also the arrangements and scheduling. I've succeeded in saying yes several times, but have failed on following through, circling back around, asking again. It is so much easier to do nothing. I have a friend that is touring conventions now, with a goal to meet people and make contacts. I think about myself; I try to place myself in that situation and my body freezes at the prospect of touring booths and asking those leading questions. I watch a lot of interviews because I find people's histories and anecdotes very entertaining. In almost every case, successful types have horrible beginnings that help propel them into leaps of faith. I can admit to being awful afraid of jumping. But it does help to admit to such fears in a place where they might be read. As if having a fear no one is aware of and having a fear others might exploit changes the fear itself.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>Regardless, break time is over, and I am back at work.</div></div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-48340783694336003602016-04-20T07:02:00.002-07:002016-04-20T07:02:57.429-07:00Fire light<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Recently, I had the opportunity to do a podcast. It's still being edited, I'm told, but I will not fail to post the link here, and in other places when it's done. My first thought after finishing it was that I will be much less critical of other interviewees in the future. It was a new experience for me, having a conversation and imagining an audience. I didn't think I would feel such pressure to make sense, to answer the questions, to be persuasive and inviting. I wish I could do it over again. I wish I had followed a much earlier thought and jotted down some notes. As it was all I thought to have with me was water. That I learned from the artist talk I did back in Februrary, how quickly I become dehydrated when speaking. At least, I understand where you're coming from, Senator.<br /><br />In other news, the fantasy novel has taken off. In the Wright brothers' sense. It's not touching the ground, but I don't know if anyone in the current era would quite call it flying yet. This process has been different from any other I've been involved with. I started writing before I was ready. My intention was just to feel things out, and much like a leash slipping through my fingers, things got out of hand. I had to track it down and put it back in its cage, and apologize to a bunch of neighbors. I wasn't lying. That type of thing normally doesn't happen. But I think I'm excited. I'm working with unreliable narrators (yes, plural) speaking on events retrospectively. That was a feel thing. It came to me, felt right, so I'm trying to pursue it, to the best of my current ability.<br /><br />I'm going to say that I should be soon emailing people about the local book festival. Maybe typing it somewhere will help guilt me into actually doing it. Like usual, Spring was a distance away, and now it's here. I'm never ready for it. But I think that might be a large part of life, too. In a similar vein, the only steps I've taken toward securing an agent is developing a plan for how to decide between an agent I want to represent me, and an agent I do not. I think what I'll have to do is look at a bunch of different artists and styles and how their publishers present them, so I can say "I'd like representation to put me in that kind of position." That feels like the wrong way to go about it, but it's the best I got so far.<br /><br />A friend told me a story, about a sibling of his writing a novel, and the slippage he noticed in the reading of it from chapter to chapter, parts where he found his confidence lowering in regards to whether or not the author knew certain things, had polished certain things, adding things at later points, in a foggier mindset. Sort of like the difference between putting a puzzle together while fully awake, in the daylight, versus just before going to bed with the lights down low. The friend paid me the compliment that he never had that feeling working on my stuff. It was gratifying because it made me feel like all the work that sometimes feels superfluous serves reason.<br /><br />So, I'm still here, grasping around in the darkness. This one here feels like a corner piece, upper left. I sure hope I've guessed the correct shape of this thing.</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-64532684883729078002016-04-04T08:32:00.000-07:002016-04-04T08:32:10.667-07:00It is not safe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I'm going to have to do something unpleasant to one of my characters. Well, that isn't entirely accurate, but I do have a lead on what has to happen next to improve the short story. It is a personal weakness of my craft that I struggle with writing less likable individuals. Evil, I can do, because I've always thought that evil depended almost entirely on perspective. One woman's trash, or treasure. Heroes can look a lot like villains depending the jersey the beholder is wearing. But for this story, for this character, to capture the perspective I am trying to highlight, I really need to make the narrator wrong-headed. Which is far afield of the person being unreliable. There can be some fun in unreliability. This will probably not be fun. And a particular weakness of mine is that I struggle moving forward with unpleasant tasks.<div><br /></div><div>Maybe that's why there was significant movement on the next novel idea. I woke up at midnight a week or so ago, and things all began falling into place. I could understand the world better because the characters became clearer. A recent conversation identified me as a "character based" writer, as opposed to being plot driven. After that interchange, I thought for the rest of the day on the concept of how plot could ever be more important than the characters driving it, involved in it. I guess I know what a partisan politician feels like now. It came up again while I was watching a movie that recently won a number of academy trophies. I latched onto the characters, their conflicts and quirks, and thanked them for holding up what was objectively a plot that amounted to a series of unfortunate disasters.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>I need to figure out Skype. I have the opportunity to participate in a podcast, and I raised my hand without imagining at all how I might be lending my voice to the enterprise. They say look before you leap, but there's no advice on what to do if one leaps first. Certainly, it wouldn't help anything if one looked after. I say if you haven't looked by the time you've leaped, don't bother afterwards. You might ruin the moment. So, anyway. Technology. I saw a video of a robot that can roll up vertical surfaces. I believe machines have become more terrifying than zombies.&nbsp;</div></div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-6652637649533665932016-03-14T07:47:00.000-07:002016-03-14T07:47:06.701-07:00Receipt received, repeat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I received the first email about agent-finding. I say first because at the bottom was a thoughtful "let me know when you're ready for more." This first email has a scroll bar. I'll confess that I haven't looked at it as hard as I could have, but that stops this week. I'd been waiting on it, and using that lack as an excuse, but now that it's here I am working on not looking for another reason to avoid doing something I assume will be very unpleasant.<div><br /></div><div>And I couldn't even say why it is, really. From a distance, it's very simple. Agents are just people in the business of making connections, and for the sake of proficiency, they tend to make their trade specific kinds of connections. Literary agents tend to work with certain kinds of work, and certain kinds of authors. I just have to find my type, based on their record, which is generally public information. When I say it like that, it's easy. It's over there, on the other side of the room, harmless.</div><div><br /></div><div>And yet...&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>In other news, I am getting good feedback on the short story, which I can only relate to my understanding of the realities of child birth. It didn't come out the way I imagined in my mind, but I'm still mostly happy for the process. Moving away from contemporary imaginings, and into science fiction, now I need to engineer some improvements. I think that's the goal his week, if this week has a goal. Sights on the 4th draft of the short story, and conjuring an outline for a plan of attack regarding finding an agent.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, I received <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1545726809?book_show_action=true&amp;from_review_page=1" target="_blank">a review on my first book that I think classifies as negative</a>. I was informed by a friend who happened to be passing through the webspace, and told me about it. I was pretty thrilled. I think my feelings were supposed to be hurt, but the person went through the trouble to jot down notes every 30 pages, and then post all of that online. He still even gave me 2 stars. In subsequent weeks, I learned that this person is a habitual reviewer, so nothing less should be expected, but I found myself pleased that someone had picked over my work with such dedication. Thinking back, I think that's just about all I've ever asked for.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>It would be really useful if I turned out to be impervious to criticism. I think it will soon be time to face the next firing squad.</div></div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-87805730120137655832016-02-28T13:48:00.000-08:002016-02-28T13:48:22.716-08:00The point points<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I'm back to writing again, and the positive feelings and negative ones are mixing well together. I feel good in a vague sort of way, as if letting the words lie on paper lightens my spirit. I feel more energetic and excitable. Activity and smiles come easier. And I feel bad, right this moment between the first and second draft where I doubt the project's purpose, or my ability to execute it. It seems like a great idea to delete it and never mention it again to anyone. It isn't necessarily surprising, but I had forgotten that particular side effect of the first drafting. It's complete, and yet it is in its roughest possible state of completeness. No one can fault a sculptor for the look of a rough block of material, but after they've worked on it for awhile, if it still looks like nothing, doubt isn't far behind the confusion.<br /><br />But, I'm back to writing again. Since finishing the sci-fi novel rewrite, I've been on a bit of an involuntary hiatus. One of those times when one gets distracted, but it just so happens to coincide with a break so it becomes less suspicious, so later when it's become pervasive, it can be a little disconcerting. Truth be told, while I've had the idea in the works for months, it was the idea of a couple friends getting together to share work monthly that finally roused me from sloth. I was lost in my own head to wonder why I hadn't been asked to partake, then I wondered if I could even have something new to present on a monthly basis. Then I thought that even if I could, getting to 12 still started with 1. Motivation is strange.<br /><br />I'm also not sure how this happened, but when coming to the drafting of this story, I was able to ask the question of whether or not another person could read it and give me their thoughts. And I was able to ask it, in earnest, several times. I was able to ask it so many times that I thought I had asked the same person more than once. I think back to a time in college when I asked the question, and the other person was still trying to become my friend. It's different now, and I'm not quite sure yet exactly how. I'm thankful to have people to bounce things off of, so maybe this networking thing is working better than I thought.<br /><br />Speaking of that, I found another author at my publisher who was praised for producing a "non typical" take on the supernatural framework. So now I'm in a review swap situation. I'm looking forward to talking with and getting to know yet another author. However, I am not sure if I signed up for this because I wanted to avoid the work ahead at finding an agent.<br /><br />But self diagnosis aside. I'm back to writing.</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-49113567892098511312016-02-21T07:20:00.002-08:002016-02-21T07:20:38.684-08:00Part II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I've had a couple friends ask me how things went.<br /><br />"You did an awesome job... you were natural and engaging. From experience you know that's a lot with that age group."<br /><br />"You did an excellent job. The students really enjoyed your talk."<br /><br />This is what I'm told, and I guess nothing particularly disastrous happened. I arrived on campus on time, but between locating the front office, signing in, waiting for someone to walk me to the right location, all I had time to do was greet my contact, and walk into a room with a large group of restless teenagers who suddenly decided they would all stare at me.<br /><br />Going in, I had planned to show them the next books in the series. I took them, thinking it would be a great opportunity for marketing, to talk to them about the first book, and then be able to physically show them that the series continued, what the covers looked like, the words therein, etc. In practice, the books stayed in my bag. I was alone on a makeshift stage that creaked when I first stepped onto it, behind a tiny podium with an impotent tail of an electrical plug dangling down, the other end connecting to a fixture bereft of a microphone. I hadn't anticipated there would be so many people. The school bought 60 books, and I still didn't think it through.<br /><br />In retrospect, I said some things that I might not have had I some time to think things through, but there was no time. I talked about my book, my process, I answered the questions I had been given, and then I opened the forum for Q&amp;A. I didn't even realize how many questions were being asked until we had to cut things short. I signed some books for about ten minutes. This, following the portion where a table of food was exposed to the teeming press. I was reminded of some of the scenes from the first Jurassic Park, a movie most of the children there hadn't seen, and yet emulated so fiercely. And then I had to go, because it was the middle of the day, at a school, so there were classes. I found myself in the parking lot walking toward my car wondering if all of it had actually happened, or if maybe I had imagined it.<br /><br />I have a visitor's sticky badge bearing my name, stuck to the envelope housing my compensation for the talk. And that's what it says: author's talk, right next to the bounty of my efforts. I have to update my resume, with that, and other things.<br /><br />I am so very happy that the bottom didn't fall out from under me.</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-90748151428789181312016-02-18T07:46:00.000-08:002016-02-18T07:46:08.693-08:00Part I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I found myself awake at 5:30 this morning, lying next to Nervousness. Tomorrow is the author talk at a local high school. All last week I had wondered if maybe I had grown socially, if my stage fright of years, which led me to speak in front of audiences and then afterward remember little of what I said. No, was the whisper, I'm still here.<br /><br />I got an email with some questions that would likely be asked, and that was a great comfort for two reasons. One, it means that they will likely ask questions, which indicates at least some level of interest. I won't be sitting in front of a group of people who were forced to stare at me. Secondly, I know what some of the questions at least will be. I am very focused on doing a good job, being insightful, which is to say helpful, for the sake of these young people. I think I have an idea of where they are sitting, and I don't want to be the latest in a long list of unhelpful adults.<br /><br />Still, even though I am hours removed from that quiet moment in the dark, I find myself hyper sensitive. All of my clothes suddenly seem wrong. My hair, my shoes. But at least the feeling of unpreparedness are far enough removed that I can look at them objectively, analyze them thoughtfully. I do not want to fail, simply put.<br /><br />So this will be something new, in multiple senses. I will post again after I've passed through to the other side. Hopefully whole.</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-74406405838029882242016-02-07T07:58:00.002-08:002016-02-07T07:58:41.804-08:00A N.Y. thing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Been awhile since I updated this, and as usual I have no excuses. It's also been awhile since I wrote consistently, but that's going to be changing soon, as well.<br /><br />Two weeks until the artist talk at a local high school. I don't know what to expect, and I think that's okay. I believe the point is to use it as a learning experience, gather what information I can and then draw conclusions after the dust clears. I was also told about a writing workshop in the area, where people pay non-trivial amounts of money to sit in on various sessions with professionals in the industry, and pay moderately less money to even pitch to an agent. I'm considering how much such an experience is worth to me, never having had it previously. Sometimes I guess one has to make decisions in the midst of the sandstorm.<br /><br />Navigating these things has been confusing and strange. So far as I can tell, there are a variety of doors a person can use for an in. "It isn't what you know, but who you know." This most visible methodology works out for a lot of individuals who find themselves connected to or connecting with the right person. It's a normal emotion, not to trust someone who isn't known, because ultimately it's all about investments, which is to say gambling. Agents, companies, entities wield a certain amount of influence and resources, and their goals are to further their agendas, most usually revolving around making more money. Taking in a book that will sell is a good thing, but who knows the future? The fallback of trust is convenient and safe and typical. Without that, it falls on the author to figure out some other way to impress the editors responsible for accepting material. I've personally also heard of authors working at publishers first, and working their way into that trust. I've also heard of authors spending decades submitting until their work finds the right person behind the right desk.<br /><br />So in terms of networking and tenacity, respectively, I think I continue to fail. But there are those resolutions. I didn't so much say them as feel them, and I know what I have to do to fulfill them. I may not end up shelling out money I don't necessarily have for the workshop, but the other resources I've come across, I will use. I am always of the mind that if a writer is not writing, they are not working. Maybe that was true 30 years ago. Now, it seems like part of the job is the meeting and greeting. I'm sure there are also other aspects I'm missing, other things that went into the careers of writers I see who are further along than me. And of course everyone's recipe for success is going to be a little different.<br /><br />So, on the horizon are the children's book concept I've failed at for 2 years, the next short story, which I'm pretty excited about, and this networking thing. I call it a thing because I still don't know what to make of it. However, I can say that I have more people in my life now who continuously ask me how it's going, and that feels really nice. Like a forgetful person is, I am increasingly more amazed at the number of things I allow to fall by the wayside. Picking them up later, "what is this doing on the floor?" Though, I am keenly aware that if I allow myself to fail, I will always remember how I didn't try hard enough.</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-14125817220898101572016-01-13T07:42:00.003-08:002016-01-13T07:42:38.376-08:00Full of pauses and nothings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">When I sat down to commit to the sci fi novel rewrite, I did so somewhat purely. And by that I mean I had no plan for where I would submit it, how, why, etc. The story wasn't strong enough, I felt, primarily, so thinking about places to send it was moot. But I did assume that once I was done, I would have somewhere to submit it.<br /><br />I finished the rewrite. It fell 5,000 words short of my initial goal of 90,000, but even then it is still almost half again as long as the other books I have out in the aether mingling on virtual shelves. I felt good about that fact. I felt good about a lot of things, especially the new ideas that started flowing after I had this project out of the way. When I sat down to finally look for publishers to submit my work to, my eyes were opened again.<br /><br />According to <a href="http://publishedtodeath.blogspot.com/2014/03/4-major-science-fiction-and-fantasy.html" target="_blank">this website</a>, the landscape has changed. Some places, known for years for producing entire series of door-stop novels, are only taking short stories, for the foreseeable future, it seems. Other places still insist a book isn't a book if it isn't 100,000 words. Right off the bat my search revealed that my novel was too long for some places, and too short for others. It was perplexing, because up to this point I had been indirectly informed that my writing was too brief, or rather, lacked word count. My search continues to this day, but I'd be lying if it hasn't become distracted.<br /><br />I assumed some companies are working shorter in response to the tablet age, where everything is immediate, and expectations have grown faster. I wouldn't necessarily disagree, that for most longer novels, a good quarter of it is stuffy filler. I decided that if push came to shove, my book ranged from 5,000 too heavy or too light, but beyond that I would be guilty of scathing away too much for things to make sense or padding the book to reach a quota. And like I said, I came to this in an effort to write a great novel, and the words I included are more or less the words I think should be present.<br /><br />Which is not to say that I think it's perfect. I deeply agree with the premise of editing, and have seen all my published works improved by the process. But to get edited, a book needs to be accepted, and to get accepted, it seems like there have to be a certain number of words met. So here I am. It's possible I may have leapt before I looked.</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754886201048068706.post-13670132571507084462015-12-29T05:51:00.001-08:002015-12-29T05:51:18.519-08:00Presence <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Last week's work went well, especially considering a mysterious Christmas Eve illness. I didn't realize what was going on, and I suppose it may have just been food poisoning. I'll probably never know now. Regardless, I edited to chapter 18, and am feeling very good about this home stretch. I now have a better understanding of what was missing in an epilogue yet to be written, and having scanned most of it within a short span, I am more familiar with this new retelling, this rewrite. Earlier in the process I was worried I had written the same story. I have banished that fear.<br /><br />I had a good conversation with a writer colleague, and her questions put me in a great position to see what my story might look like to different eyes. She is preparing a piece for submission herself, and I think the process was as beneficial for her as it was for me. We're supposed to be getting together for a more in depth chat this week. If I had my druthers, I would be able to finish everything before that meeting, not because she's read it, but because I'd be able to have a discussion about this writing because I'd be carrying all of it with me.<br /><br />I worked on Christmas Eve. Stumbling to bed that evening, delirious from mental fatigue, I thought to myself that I would be giving myself the best present: belief. If I believe in what I'm doing, I told myself, then I will put in the work required as if I have no choice but to succeed. I achieved a strange kind of head space where a lot of different things made sense in their insanity. "Of course I give myself hard work as a present. That means that the results are valuable, that what I'm doing is worthwhile, more than a lot of other distractions that I could be succumbing to." Of course, I was also sick, so maybe we'll just chalk that up to fever dreaming.<br /><br />I'm ahead of schedule, with all next week penciled in for work, also, though I doubt I'll need it at this point. If I can finish the rewrite, with this new section I have in mind to add, edit it, and fix the formatting, I might actually get a chance next week to relax before I go back to work, because I will finally have that new novel, that new story, to submit to new publishers. It's been a while since I had something complete, and unconnected to previous writings. Sometimes it feels like sweeping water in the bottom of a well. It isn't going anywhere, but if I focus, I can make sure a unit by unit section is perfectly dry, dry enough to maybe get at whatever is at the bottom of a pit of wishes.</div>J. E. Cammonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16330684677612896530noreply@blogger.com0